Yct^  vu'll,a'VA 


P  A  iH « 

ilOG. 


©I He  Maying 

of 

A***' 

©Wiffiam  (©areu. 

f  4  J 


BY 


Prof.(T.  HARWOOD  PATTI  SON,  D.  D. 


AMERICAN 

BAPTIST  PUBLICATION 
SOCIETY. 


* 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2018  with  funding  from 
Columbia  University  Libraries 


https://archive.org/details/makingofwilliamcOOpatt 


(Hfte  Maying 


I3Y 

Prof.  T.  HARWOOD  PATTISON,  D.  D. 


AMERICAN 

BAPTIST  PUBLICATION 
SOCIETY. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1892,  by  the 
AMERICAN  BAPTIST  PUBLICATION  SOCIETY, 

In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


THE  MAKING  OF  WILLIAM  CARLY. 


Our  story  opens  in  the  stately 
Intkoduction.  Government  House  at  Calcutta.  The 

time  is  somewhere  in  the  first  years  of 
our  century.  In  the  saloon  of  the  governor-generars 
mansion,  he  himself  is  talking  with  another  English 
nobleman.  At  this  moment  a  little  gentleman,  pale, 
thoughtful  and  refined,  passes  through  the  room  and  at¬ 
tracts  the  nobleman’s  attention.  “  Who  is  this  gentle¬ 
man?”  he  inquired  of  the  governor-general.  “Oh, 
that  is  Dr.  Carey,  the  professor  of  Sanskrit,  Bengali,  and 
Mahratta  in  the  college  of  Fort  William;  ”  and  then 
the  governor  added,  “  He  was  once  a  shoemaker.”  The 
little  gentleman  overheard  the  words,  and  stepping  for¬ 
ward,  in  a  very  modest  but  perfectly  self-possessed  way, 
said  :  “  Excuse  me,  my  lord,  I  was  only  a  cobbler.” 

“Only  a  cobbler.”  Yes,  and  this  not  so  many  years 
before  the  scene  in  the  great  house  at  Calcutta.  The 
last  century,  in  its  parting  decades,  saw  a  poor,  unknown 
man  struggling  for  a  livelihood ;  preacher,  school¬ 
master,  shoemaker,  and  yet  for  whole  weeks  at  a  time 

unable  out  of  all  these  employments  to  furnish  meat  for 

3 


4 


THE  MAKING  OF  WILLIAM  CAREY. 


his  table.  The  present  century,  in  its  opening  decades, 
heard  Lord  Wellesley,  the  Governor-General  of  India, 
second  only  to  the  Sovereign  in  rank  in  the  British  Em¬ 
pire,  say  when  he  was  praised  by  that  same  poor  man : 
“I  esteem  such  a  testimony  from  such  a  man  a  greater 
honor  than  the  applause  of  courts  and  parliaments.” 
Now  how  did  this  change  come  about  ?  How  did  the 
cobbler  get  into  the  palace  ?  Robert  Hall,  the  most 
eloquent  of  preachers,  spoke  of  Carey  as  :  “  That  extra¬ 
ordinary  man,  who  from  the  lowest  obscurity  and  pov¬ 
erty,  without  assistance,  rose  by  dint  of  unrelenting 
industry  to  the  highest  honors  of  literature,  became  one 
of  the  first  of  Orientalists,  the  first  of  missionaries,  and  the 
instrument  of  diffusing  more  religious  knowledge  among 
his  contemporaries  than  has  fallen  to  the  lot  of  any  indi¬ 
vidual  since  the  Reformation  ;  a  man  who  united  with  the 
most  profound  and  varied  attainments  the  fervor  of  an  evan¬ 
gelist,  the  piety  of  a  saint,  and  the  simplicity  of  a  child.” 

In  all  that  glowing  eulogy  there  is  not  one  word  of 
exaggeration.  But  this  only  throws  us  back  again  on 
the  question :  How  did  it  come  about  that  a  penniless 
cobbler,  in  an  obscure  English  village,  rose  to  be  the 
pioneer  of  modern  missions  ?  It  was  no  accident.  Nor 
was  it  an  accident,  either,  that  the  eighteenth  century, 
brutal,  coarse,  and  ignorant,  as  it  is  often  charged  with 
being,  when  its  sun  came  to  set,  brightened  so  that  its 
last  hours  were  all  aglow  with  the  splendor  of  unpar- 


CAREY. 


5 


alleled  Christian  promise.  What  I  propose  now  is  to 
trace  some  of  the  main  lines  which  led  up  to  that  hour 
and  to  that  man. 

Suppose  that  for  our  present  purpose  we  strike  a  circle 
with  radii  running  from  the  centre  to  the  circumference. 
In  that  centre  write  the  name  of  William  Carey.  Now  let 
us  draw  the  lines  to  the  outer  rim  of  our  circle  from  this 
name  which  we  have  written  in  the  centre.  I  find  that 
six  such  lines  will  be  sufficient  for  all  that  has  to  be  said 
about  the  visible  and  human  causes  which  transformed 
the  cobbler  of  Paulerspury  into  the  professor  at  Fort 
William  College.  The  first  line  we  may  call  Carey ,  the 
second  England ,  the  third  The  South  Seas,  the  fourth 
America ,  the  fifth  Andrew  Fuller,  and  the  last  India. 
Now  here  is  a  fact  in  itself  very  suggestive.  Humanly 
speaking,  Carey  might  never  have  been  heard  of  but  for 
each  one  of  these  six  lines.  They  are  like  the  spurs  of  a 
great  mountain,  which  thrusting  themselves  far  down 
anchor  it  to  the  country  around  about,  and  lift  it  to  its 
position  of  solitary  prominence  and  grandeur. 

Our  first  line  starts  in  the  little  vil- 
I.  Carey.  lage  of  Paulerspury,  which  is  eleven 
miles  from  Northampton,  in  Old 
England.  Another  Northampton  will  come  into  its  own 
place  in  our  story  later  on.  Long  centuries  ago,  the  Romans 
ran  a  road  from  London  to  Chester,  and  it  remains — as 


6 


THE  MAKING  OF  WILLIAM  CAREY. 


work  done  by  the  Romans  is  apt  to  remain — even  yet. 
Our  little  country  village  has  risen  on  either  side  of  this 
road,  along  which  hundreds  of  years  before  tramped  Ro¬ 
man  legions  with  flashing  eagles  and  gleaming  armor. 
To-day,  however,  a  more  peaceful  picture  catches  our  eye. 
School  is  over,  and  the  boys  and  girls  are  Ailing  the  air 
with  their  shouts.  They  are  all  eager  for  play — all  but  one 
boy,  “  Columbus,”  his  companions  had  nick-named  him, 
for  he  is  full  of  stories  of  travel  and  adventure.  But  in 
the  opinion  of  his  schoolmates  he  is  not  good  for  much. 
He  cannot  manage  a  spade  nor  a  plough.  He  does  not 
care  for  prisoner’s  base  or  marbles.  He  scarcely  knows 
a  bat  from  a  ball.  All  he  can  do  is  to  imitate  the  par¬ 
son  ;  and  at  preaching  he  is  much  better  than  the  parson 
himself.  When  the  other  boys  tire  of  play,  they  mount 
“  Columbus  ’  ’  on  the  stump  of  an  old  elm  and  call  for  a  ser¬ 
mon.  His  father  scarcely  approves,  for  is  he  not  parish- 
clerk  and  schoolmaster  ?  This  trifling  with  the  learned 
profession,  of  which  he  is  a  sort  of  poor  relation  himself, 
seems  a  little  dangerous.  For  the  rest,  William  is  a  good 
boy  enough.  His  schoolfellows  may  call  him  awkward 
and  lumpish,  but  certainly  he  is  active  enough  in  some 
ways.  At  whatever  time  of  night  his  father  calls  to  him 
he  seems  to  be  awake.  His  mother  says  she  hears  him  in 
the  darkness  saying  his  lessons  of  the  past  day  over  again, 
a  very  unusual  occupation  with  the  ordinary  schoolboy. 

The  Careys  were  an  old  family.  Readers  of  “  West- 


CAEEY. 


7 


ward  Ho  ”  will  recall  the  hearty  Devonshire  hero  of  the 
same  name  as  the  boy  we  are  looking  at  now.  Nobles  and 
soldiers  and  scholars  have  been  Careys  in  the  past.  Per¬ 
haps  some  of  their  heroic  blood  flows  in  the  veins  of  our 
young  Columbus.  He  certainly  possesses  that  most 
prized  of  boyish  virtues,  pluck.  The  other  day,  when  he 
w&s  in  the  agonies  of  toothache,  his  companions,  half 
in  fun,  offered  to  take  the  tooth  out  for  him.  Dentists 
were  not  very  frequent  at  that  time.  So  the  boys  took 
William  in  hand,  tied  one  end  of  a  string  to  the  tooth 
and  the  other  to  a  wheel  used  for  grinding  malt,  gave  a 
sharp  turn  or  two  to  the  wheel,  and  in  a  trice  out  came 
the  tooth.  Carey  said  he  felt  as  though  his  head  would 
come  out  too,  but  he  bore  it  like  a  man.  “  Columbus  ” 
was  good  for  something  after  all.  Yes,  and  then  there 
was  the  story  of  the  tree.  Carey  was  climbing  it  one 
day,  when  just  as  he  reached  the  top  his  foot  slipped  and 
he  fell.  He  fractured  a  limb,  and  was  kept  in  bed  for 

some  weeks,  but  when  he  got  well  enough  to  be  out,  the 

first  thing  that  he  did  was  to  go  and  climb  that  tree 
again.  And  this  time  he  did  not  fall.  His  sister  Mary 
— he  used  to  carry  her  in  his  arms  in  his  rambles  after 
plants  and  insects — says  that  he  was  always  “resolutely 
determined  never  to  give  up  any  point  or  particle 

of  anything  on  which  his  mind  was  set,  until  he  had 

arrived  at  a  clear  knowledge  and  sense  of  his  sub¬ 
ject.  He  was  not  to  be  allured  or  diverted  from  it ; 


8 


THE  MAKING  OF  WILLIAM  CAREY. 


he  was  firm  in  his  purpose  and  steady  in  his  endeavor  to 
improved  ’ 

This  reminds  me  to  add  that  his  great  passion  was  for 
collecting  things.  Up  to  the  very  door  of  the  village 
schoolhouse  came  the  royal  forest  of  Whittlebury,  which 
six  or  seven  hundred  years  before,  William  the  Conqueror 
had  given  to  one  of  his  sons.  But  the  real  William  the 
Conqueror  came  to  it  now,  when  the  lessons  of  the  day 
were  done,  and  the  schoolmaster’s  boy  went  wandering 
on  and  on  in  among  the  oaks  and  beeches.  He  had  a 
room  all  to  himself  in  the  cottage,  and  it  was  full  of 
birds  and  insects  and  plants  and  flowers.  He  kept  an 
eye  on  the  hedges  as  he  walked,  and  found 

“  Tongues  in  trees,  books  in  the  running  brooks, 

Sermons  in  stones,  and  good  in  everything.” 

Mary  used  to  wonder  why  her  brother  William  would 
carry  her  across  the  dirtiest  road  just  to  get  a  plant  or 
an  insect,  and  still  more  what  he  could  find  in  them 
when  he  had  them  in  his  hands.  He  looked  so  long 
and  so  carefully  that  she  never  forgot  it.  No,  and  he 
never  forgot  it  either.  Thirty-five  years  after  when 
living  in  India,  he  writes  thus  to  his  son,  whose  name 
was  William  too; 

“  When  you  come  down  take  a  little  pains  to  bring  down  a  few 
plants  of  some  sort.  There  is  one  grows  plentifully  about  Sada- 
madal,  which  grows  about  as  high  as  one’s  knee,  and  produces  a  large 
red  flower.  There  is  a  plant  which  produces  a  flower  of  a  pale  bluish 
color  ....  and  indeed  several  other  things  there.  Try  and  bring 


CAREY. 


9 


something.  Can’t  you  bring  the  grasshopper  which  has  a  saddle  on 
its  back,  or  the  bird  which  has  a  large  crest  which  he  opens  when  he 
settles  on  the  ground  ?  I  want  to  give  you  a  little  taste  for  natural 
objects.” 

The  schoolmaster’s  boy  when  he  plunged  into  the 
royal  forest  took  the  first  step  in  a  journey  of  inquiry 
which  only  ended  when  he  died.  Botany  was  his  de¬ 
light.  His  garden  in  India  was  famous  for  rare  and  val¬ 
uable  plants.  To  it  his  very  last  visit  was  paid.  He 
was  carried,  when  he  could  walk  no  longer,  to  say  fare¬ 
well  to  it.  Then,  when  too  weak  to  go,  he  would  have 
his  head  gardener  come  to  his  room  to  tell  him  how  the 
plants  were  growing.  He  said,  as  he  prepared  to  die, 
that  he  had  not  a  wish  that  was  not  fulfilled  ;  but  one 
day  in  a  moment  of  depression  he  exclaimed:  “When 
I  am  gone  Brother  Marshman  will  turn  the  cows  into  the 
garden. ’ ’  “  Far  be  it  from  me,”  was  Marshman’s  reply ; 

“though  I  have  not  your  botanical  tastes,  I  shall  con¬ 
sider  the  preservation  of  the  garden  in  which  you  have 
taken  so  much  delight  as  a  sacred  duty.  ”  The  assurance 
really  seemed  to  rob  death  of  one  of  its  terrors. 

The  boy  is  father  of  the  man  :  and  our  study  of  the 
lines  which  led  up  to  William  Carey  the  great  missionary 
must  begin  with  William  Carey  the  little  villager.  What 
he  was  afterward  we  shall  see  later  on.  I  am  content  now 
to  leave  him  for  a  while — a  boy  of  twelve,  awkward,  but 
wide  awake,  not  caring  for  games,  but  full  of  pluck  and 


10 


THE  MAKING  OF  WILLIAM  CAREY. 


perseverance,  and  loving  every  plant  that  grows,  and 
every  bird  that  sings  in  the  royal  forest  all  about  his 
father’s  home. 


Our  second  radius  we  named  Eng - 
II.  England.  land:  What  was  the  country  like  in 
which  our  young  Columbus  was  born 
and  trained  ?  The  year  before  he  appeared  in  the  world 
George  III.  became  king.  It  was  a  great  time  in  which 
to  come  to  the  throne.  “Never,”  says  Green,  “had 
England  played  so  great  a  part  in  the  history  of  man¬ 
kind  as  in  the  year  1759.  It  was  a  year  of  triumphs  in 
every  quarter  of  the  world.”  The  French  were  defeated 
by  sea  and  land.  On  the  heights  of  Abraham  the  gal¬ 
lant  Wolfe,  mortally  wounded,  gave  his  last  order,  heard 
that  the  battle  was  won,  said  only,  “  Now,  God  be 
praised  !  I  die  in  peace,”  and  expired.  In  India, 
Clive  had  made  for  himself  a  splendid  name,  and  given 
to  his  country  a  new  empire.  “We  are  forced  to  ask 
every  morning,”  says  Horace  Walpole,  “what  victory 
there  is,  for  fear  of  missing  one.”  But  when  we  look  at 
home,  at  life  in  the  city  and  in  the  country,  we  find 
enough  to  make  us  serious.  George  III.  was  the  first 
English-born  sovereign  of  his  house  ;  the  first  who  could 
speak  the  language  of  his  people ;  the  first  whom  his 
people  loved.  His  mother  called  him  “  a  dull  good 
boy,”  and  we  know  him  to  have  kept  that  character  to 


ENGLAND. 


11 


the  last.  He  could  not  help  it  that  he  had  a  very  small 
mind,  and  it  was  no  fault  of  his  that  he  had  been 
wretchedly  educated.  He  was  obstinate,  stupid,  and 
ignorant.  No  one  trained  him  to  be  anything  else. 
But  he  was  conscientious  and  high- principled  and 
pious.  In  his  desk  they  found  a  prayer  which  he  him¬ 
self  composed  for  his  own  coronation  :  “  Keep  me,  O 
Lord,  from  silly  and  unguarded  friends,  and  from  secret 
and  designing  enemies,  and  give  me  those  things  which 
are  best  for  me,  through  Jesus  Christ  our  Lord.”  It 
was  a  new  thing  in  England  for  a  king  to  pray,  and  the 
phenomenon  has  not  been  frequent  since.  But  it  was  a 
hopeful  sign.  Thackeray  says  truly,  “Around  a  young 
king,  himself  of  the  most  exemplary  life  and  undoubted 
piety,  lived  a  court  society  as  dissolute  as  our  country  ever 
knew  ”  ;  and  he  adds,  “  I  believe  that  a  knowledge  of  that 
good  man’s  example,  his  moderation,  his  frugal  simplicity 
and  God-fearing  life,  tended  infinitely  to  improve  the 
morals  of  the  country,  and  purify  the  whole  nation.” 

Certainly  it  needed  purifying.  On  the  other  side  of 
the  road,  opposite  to  Carey’s  chapel  at  Moulton,  where 
he  was  ordained  and  really  began  his  ministry,  was  a 
club  -house  about  which  he  would  hear  terrible  tales ; 
how  in  it  wines  flowed  like  water,  and  indeed  a  great 
deal  more  plentifully,  and  how  vast  sums  of  money  were 
staked  and  lost  there  at  cards.  Gambling  was  a  passion 
with  all  classes.  Lotteries,  the  curse  of  any  nation 


12 


THE  MAKING  OF  WILLIAM  CAKEY. 


which  allows  them,  were  used  for  all  sorts  of  purposes. 
The  lottery  helped  to  build  Westminster  Bridge,  London, 
and  to  stock  the  British  Museum,  and  even  to  put  up 
churches,  and  to  endow  charitable  institutions.  One 
natural  consequence  was  a  dislike  for  steady  work,  and  a 
haste  to  be  rich.  It  was  the  age  of  bubbles,  which  rose 
and  glittered  and  burst.  The  people  at  large  were 
degraded  and  brutal.  Cock-fighting  was  a  favorite  game 
with  schoolboys,  and  sometimes  the  master  claimed  the 
runaway  birds  as  his  special  perquisite.  Moralists  pre¬ 
tended  that  the  sport  would  put  an  end  to  war  by  giving 
this  superfluous  spirit  a  chance  of  escaping  in  what  was 
called  “an  innocent  and  regal  recreation.”  Prize¬ 
fighting  and  wrestling  were  popular  sports.  Every 
parish  had  its  feast-day  in  which  these  wei;e  the  popular 
amusements.  Revel-Sunday  was  an  institution  yet  in 
many  parts  of  England,  and  it  began  with  a  sermon  and 
closed  in  an  orgy. 

Public  morals  must  have  been  at  a  very  low  ebb.  As 
late  as  1802,  as  I  read  in  the  “Morning  Herald,”  of 
London,  “a  butcher  sold  his  wife  by  auction  at  the 
last  market  day  at  Hereford.  The  lot  brought  £1  4s. 
and  a  bowl  of  punch.  ’  ’  And  exceptional  as  such  a  case 
was,  it  reveals  a  condition  of  shameless  depravity  which 
was,  one  fears,  very  general  in  the  early  days  of  good 
King  George. 

But  what  were  the  churches  doing  ?  Very  slowly  they 


ENGLAND. 


13 


were  responding  to  the  remarkable  revival  of  religion 
which  was  being  talked  of  from  Land’s  End  to  John 
o’  Groat’s  house  when  Carey  was  born.  The  Episcopal 
Church,  with  a  few  memorable  exceptions,  was  fiercely 
opposed  to  that  revival.  Bishop  Butler  said  that  White- 
field’s  belief  in  the  immediate  guidance  of  the  Holy 
Spirit  was  “a  horrid  thing,  a  very  horrid  thing.”  The 
Bishop  of  London  denounced  the  Methodists  for  preach¬ 
ing  to  “the  rabble.”  “It  is  monstrous,”  said  a 
daughter  of  James  II.,  “  to  be  told  that  you  have  a  heart 
as  simple  as  the  common  wretches  that  crawl  on  the 
earth.”  The  Tory  farmer  of  whom  it  was  said,  “As  to 
religion  he  had  none ;  in  all  other  respects  he  was  a 
Protestant,”  was  not  singular.  Of  too  many  of  the 
clergy  the  same  remark  would  have  held  true.  When 
Carey  was  yet  a  boy,  the  greatest  lawyer  England  has 
ever  seen  went  from  one  church  in  London  to  another 
and  listened  in  vain  for  a  word  which  might  not  have 
come  from  Cicero  as  aptly  as  from  a  clergyman,  and 
from  a  follower  of  Confucius  as  fittingly  as  from  a  fol¬ 
lower  of  Christ.  Carey’s  first  master  was  a  shoemaker, 
in  the  little  village  of  Hackleton.  He  is  described  as 
being  a  strict  churchman,  and  yet  one  who  now  and  then 
got  drunk.  But  what  else  could  we  expect  in  such  a  place  ? 
The  ’squire  of  the  parish  had  appropriated  the  living,  the 
parsonage,  the  glebe,  and  all  the  tithes ;  and  only  sent 
his  chaplain  to  take  the  service  when  it  pleased  him. 


14  THE  MAKING  OF  WILLIAM  CAREY. 

Such  flagrant  wrongs  as  this,  and  hundreds  like  it, 
roused  the  Nonconformists  into  political  activity.  One 
by  one  they  were  wresting  from  the  hands  of  the  govern¬ 
ment  those  liberties  which  were  their  birthright.  Carey’s  ■ 
father,  as  became  a  parish  clerk  whose  duty  it  was  to 
say  £<  Amen  ”  to  the  clergyman,  never  reconciled  him¬ 
self  to  the  change  in  William’s  views.  He  did  indeed 
contrive  to  hear  his  son  preach,  but  only  “  unseen  by 
him  or  any  one.  ’  ’ 

Methodism  was  scarcely  more  welcome  to  the  Dis¬ 
senters  than  it  was  to  the  clergy  in  the  Established 
Church.  There  were  not  many  men  among  the  Baptists 
when  Carey  was  baptized  and  joined  that  body,  who 
emulated  either  the  fervor  of  Whitefield  or  the  unction 
of  Wesley.  That  they  knew  better  what  truth  was  than 
did  their  neighbors  in  the  Episcopal  Church,  only  added 
to  their  guilt.  William  Jay  sums  up  the  religious  state 
of  England  when  Wesley  began  to  preach,  in  one 
sentence  :  “  The  Establishment  was  asleep  in  the  dark, 

and  the  Dissenters  were  asleep  in  the  light.”  “  Sound 
and  sound  asleep,”  is  another  and  still  briefer  summary, 
which  is  only  half  true  as  regards  the  soundness,  but 
wholly  so  as  regards  the  sleep.  The  sturdiest  preacher 
of  that  era  never  wore  a  parson’s  gown  nor  mounted  a 
pulpit.  His  name  was  William  Hogarth,  and  his  sermons 
may  yet  be  seen  on  canvas.  Among  other  things  he 
painted  “  The  Sleeping  Congregation,”  and  even  now 


ENGLAND. 


15 


it  is  hard  work  for  any  one  who  looks  at  it  to  keep 
awake.  The  people  are  all  locked  in  slumber,  from  the 
boy  in  the  distant  gallery  to  the  old  woman  in  the  shady 
nook  underneath  the  pulpit.  The  clerk  indeed  keeps 
half  an  eye  open ;  but  only  that  he  may  detect  his  erring 
neighbors.  By  means  of  a  big  magnifying  glass  the 
somnolent  parson  is  spelling  a  sermon  out  of  a  book, 
and  his  text  is  “  Come  unto  me  all  ye  that  labour,  and  I 
will  give  you  rest.”  No  inapt  picture  this  of  the 
slumbering  church  in  the  first  half  of  the  eighteenth 
century.  “An  age,”  says  Mr.  Mark  Pattison,  with  only 
too  much  truth,  “  destitute  of  depth  or  earnestness;  an 
age  whose  poetry  was  without  romance,  whose  philosophy 
was  without  insight,  and  whose  public  men  were  without 
character;  an  age  of  ‘light  without  love/  whose  very 
merits  were  ‘  of  the  earth,  earthy/  ” 

But  now,  having  said  so  much  that  is  unfavorable 
about  the  era  in  which  Carey  was  born,  let  me  add  that 
he  came  to  it  just  at  the  right  time.  Wesley  had  been 
preaching  in  the  open  air  for  over  twenty  years.  On 
commons  and  in  fields,  Whitefield  had  thrilled  multi¬ 
tudes  by  his  matchless  eloquence.  The  country  was 
waking  up  from  its  torpor.  And  what  a  great  country 
it  was!  “Full,”  as  has  been  said,  “of  strong  and 
brave  men.”  “Upon  the  ocean,”  Johnson  writes,  in 
his  grand  manner,  “  we  are  allowed  to  be  irresistible,  to 
be  able  to  shut  up  the  ports  of  the  continent,  imprison 


16 


THE  MAKING  OF  WILLIAM  CAREY. 


the  nations  of  Europe  within  the  limits  of  their  own 
territories,  deprive  them  of  all  foreign  assistance,  and 
put  a  stop  to  the  commerce  of  the  world.” 

The  stuff  out  of  which  a  missionary  should  be  made 
was  never  so  abundant  as  it  was  at  this  time.  From  the 
coalpit,  the  quarry,  and  the  loom,  Wesley  rescued  scores 
of  manly  souls.  England  is  feeling  her  strength  now. 
The  Stuarts  are  gone.  The  foreigners  are  gone.  She 
has  her  own  king,  and  slowly  she  will  get  her  own  in 
many  other  things  much  more  important  than  King 
George  III.  Already  there  are  prophetic  souls  uttering 
their  faith  in  a  coming  revival  of  religion.  On  his 
death-bed,  the  father  of  the  Wesleys  laid  his  hand  on  the 
head  of  his  son  Charles,  and  said  to  him,  “  Be  steady  ! 
The  Christian  faith  will  surely  revive  in  this  kingdom  : 
you  shall  see  it,  though  I  shall  not.  ’  ’  Before  twenty  sum¬ 
mers  had  blossomed  above  the  grave  of  Samuel  Wesley 
the  whole  country  was  in  a  blaze  of  religious  fervor. 

It  is  far  from  England  to  the  Pacific. 

III.  The  South  But  there  we  will  go  for  our  next  line. 

Seas.  What  could  the  South  Seas  have  to  do 

with  the  making  of  William  Carey? 

He  was  a  boy  of  ten  when  a  wonderful  event  happened 
in  England.  A  Yorkshire  lad,  who  had  run  away  to 
sea  and  risen  to  command  a  ship  of  his  own,  came  home 
with  the  most  stirring  tales  that  had  been  heard  since 


THE  SOUTH  SEAS. 


17 


Queen  Elizabeth.  Somewhere  in  the  Pacific — so  it  was 
believed — there  was  a  vast,  undiscovered  continent. 
Columbus  had  found  America.  This  other  continent 
must  now  be  found.  James  Cook,  the  boy  who  went  to 
sea  rather  than  be  a  draper’s  apprentice,  was  the  man  who 
started  out  to  discover  it.  He  failed  to  find  the  continent, 
and  that  for  the  very  best  of  reasons — there  was  no  con¬ 
tinent  to  find.  But  he  sailed  into  the  South  Seas.  He 
saw  Tahiti,  and  New  Zealand,  and  Australia.  Every¬ 
where  he  planted  on  the  new-found  shores  the  British 
flag.  A  second  voyage  of  discovery  added  new  islands, 
all  beautiful  beyond  words  of  his  to  paint  them.  Such 
skies  there  were,  such  seas,  such  coral  reefs,  such  fringes 
of  palm,  such  splendor  of  birds  and  of  flowers.  When 
he  came  home  and  told  his  story,  all  England  went  wild 
over  it.  Captain  Cook  was  the  hero  of  the  hour. 
Carey  would  hear  this  talked  over  around  his  father’s  fire, 
and  by-and-by  he  would  talk  of  it  himself.  The  botany 
fascinated  him.  The  new  geography  was  delightful. 
How  big  the  world  was  getting,  and  how  bright !  Then 
came  the  sad  news  that  on  Hawaii  the  brave  sailor  had 
been  clubbed  to  death.  Cook  was  gone  ;  yes,  but  those 
enchanted  islands  remained.  And  so  also  did  the  story 
of  Cook’s  voyage,  which  was  to  be  the  favorite  reading 
of  English  boys  for  fifty  years  to  come.  Only  old  Doctor 
Johnson,  who  had  such  a  habit  of  differing  with  every 
one,  growled  that  a  sai’or’s  life  was  worse  than  a  dog’s, 


18 


THE  MAKING  OF  WILLIAM  CAREY. 


and  that  if  there  was  one  thing  worse  than  his  life  it  was 
the  books  which  he  wrote  about  his  travels.  “A  man 
had  better  work  his  way  before  the  mast  than  read  these 
through.  There  can  be  no  entertainment  in  such  books.” 

Not  so  thought  young  William  Carey.  Had  they  not 
called  him  “Columbus”?  He  was  full  of  enthusiasm 
at  these  sailors’  tales.  He  was  cobbling  shoes,  and 
teaching  children,  and  he  had  just  begun  to  try  to 
preach.  His  little  workshop  he  hung  around  with  maps 
of  his  own  making.  He  did  not  know  much  about 
geography,  but  he  did  his  best  with  what  he  did  know. 
He  constructed  a  rude  globe  out  of  leather,  and  marked 
the  countries  on  it.  Then  he  put  signs  of  his  own  on 
the  parts  where  heathenism  was  darkest  and  most  savage. 
Tahiti  had  filled  and  fired  his  imagination.  This  was 
the  group  of  islands  he  had  first  heard  of  in  connection 
with  Captain  Cook.  He  dreamed  of  the  country  by 
day  and  saw  it  in  vision  by  night.  He  could  see  the 
white  cliffs  rising  above  the  heads  of  the  great  forest 
trees,  and  the  lovely  waterfalls  flinging  themselves  over 
the  precipices  or  tumbling  down  the  glades,  and  the 
huge  palms  crowned  with  fruit,  and  the  dense  under¬ 
growth  of  giant  ferns.  He  could  hear,  in  his  poor 
cobbler’s  stall,  the  waves  breaking  on  the  coral  reefs. 
His  mind  was  all  alive  with  bright  pictures  and  sweet 
sounds.  Ah,  and  he  could  see  the  grim  idols  too,  and 
catch  the  wild  music  of  the  heathenish  worship.  These 


NORTHAMPTON. 


19 


natives,  so  graceful,  and  simple-hearted,  and  gentle,  must 
be  won  to  Christ.  The  walls  of  the  workshop  seemed 
to  fall  away,  the  whole  world  sent  its  sights  and  sounds 
to  fill  that  mean  hut  with  unspeakable  glories.  These 
people  must  be  reached  with  the  gospel,  and  he,  yes,  he 
must  go.  Tahiti  should  be  saved.  His  eye  rested  on 
that  one  spot  upon  the  map.  There  he  would  work, 
and  preach,  and  die.  The  runaway  Yorkshire  boy 
touched  hands  in  the  missionary  chain  with  the  young 
shoemaker  in  his  stall.  James  Cook  had  much  to  do 
with  the  making  of  William  Carey. 

Our  first  radius  started  from  the 
IV.  Northampton,  village  schoolhouse  of  Paulerspury,  our 

second  from  the  throne  of  George  III., 
our  third  from  the  coral  reefs  of  Tahiti.  Now  for  a  fourth, 
we  write  again  the  word  Northampton.  Not  the  English 
town,  however,  but  the  pleasant  New  England  village, 
where  to-day,  beneath  the  great  elm  trees,  lies  all  that  is 
mortal  of  Jonathan  Edwards.  Jonathan  Edwards  had 
his  share  in  bringing  about  William  Carey.  How? 
Well,  in  this  way.  There  came  in  the  early  years  of 
the  last  century  a  powerful  spiritual  revival  to  Scotland. 
You  see  everything  was  waking  up,  because  the  Stuarts 
were  gone,  and  this  land  was  slowly  escaping  from  the 
religious  intolerance  which,  like  a  crimson  line,  is 
drawn  across  all  their  reigns.  In  1742,  a  Scottish  min- 


20 


THE  MAKING  OF  WILLIAM  CAREY. 


ister,  called  John  Bonar,  published  a  letter  on  “  The  Duty 
and  Advantages  of  Religious  Societies.”  It  was  really  a 
call  to  united  prayer  and  work.  Two  years  after  this 
a  number  of  ministers  in  Scotland  banded  themselves 
together  to  pray  that  God’s  kingdom  might  come. 
Every  Saturday  evening,  every  Sunday  morning,  and  on 
the  first  Tuesday  of  every  quarter,  they  prayed.  Two 
more  years  followed,  and  by  that  time  such  a  wonderful 
blessing  had  come  to  these  praying  ministers  that  the 
whole  country  was  affected  by  them,  and  in  August, 
1746,  they  sent  across  to  North  America,  and  invited  all 
Christians  there  to  enter  into  their  prayer  union  for 
seven  years.  See  what  faith  and  what  patience  these 
men  had.  They  were  willing  to  wait,  if  only  the  king¬ 
dom  might  be  extended.  This  was  a  great  missionary 
society,  a  pentecost  united  not  for  action,  but  only  first 
of  all  for  prayer.  The  message  from  England  came  to 
Northampton,  Massachusetts,  and  when  it  struck  Jona¬ 
than  Edwards  it  struck  fire.  He  wrote  an  address 
entitled  an  “An  Humble  Attempt  to  Promote  Explicit 
Agreement  and  Visible  Union  of  God’s  People  in  Extra¬ 
ordinary  Prayer  for  the  Revival  of  Religion  and  the 
Advancement  of  Christ’s  Kingdom  on  Earth” — a  long 
and  awkward  title,  as  befits  a  man  who  never  learned 
how  to  write  clear  English ;  but  how  weighty  it  is  with 
meaning.  By  the  time  this  pamphlet  had  done  its 
best  work,  America  had  ceased  to  be  an  English  prov- 


ANDREW  FULLER. 


21 


ince,  and  poor,  demented  George  III.  was  spluttering  and 
storming  over  the  loss  of  his  colony.  But  when  that 
pamphlet  by  Jonathan  Edwards  found  its  way  to  Moulton, 
one  might  almost  say  that  the  shot  was  fired  which  has 
been  heard  all  around  the  world.  Carey  read  what 
Edwards  had  to  say.  He  was  profoundly  moved.  So 
were  other  Baptist  ministers.  They  were  prepared  to 
pray.  So,  in  1784,  the  Northamptonshire  Association 
of  Baptist  Ministers  invited  all  the  people  to  pray  with 
them  for  one  hour  of  every  month,  for  the  coming  of 
the  Holy  Spirit.  In  their  message  to  the  churches  they 
j  say,  “  Let  the  spread  of  the  gospel  to  the  most  distant 
:  part  of  the  habitable  globe  be  the  object  of  your  most 
fervent  requests.”  Ah,  the  pale,  intense  preacher  in  the 
li  New  England  village  of  Northampton  did  his  part  toward 
making  William  Carey  when  he  wrote  his  famous 
pamphlet.  The  elms  of  Northampton  had  their  part  to 
play  in  this  wonderful  story.  Without  Edwards  there 
might  have  been  no  Carey.1 

I  now  come  to  what  is  perhaps  the 

i 

V.  Andrew  most  significant  of  all  these  lines 

Fuller.  which  we  have  been  drawing.  Let 
us  call  it  Andrew  Fuller. 

It  starts  in  the  village  of  Wicken,  among  the  fens  of 

l  For  the  influence  of  David  Brainerd's  missionary  labors  on  Carey,  see  his 
“  Enquiry  into  the  Obligations  of  Christians  to  Use  Means  for  the  Conversion  of 
the  Heathen."  London  reprint,  1891,  pp.  70,  87. 


22 


THE  MAKING  OF  WILLIAM  CAREY. 


Cambridgeshire.  It  is  not  a  beautiful  part  of  England. 
Far  as  the  eye  can  see  there  are  only  stretches  of  flat, 
green  pasturage,  broken  here  and  there  by  a  church 
tower.  Like  Holland,  only  even  more  so,  it  lies  at  the 
mercy  of  the  water.  Whittlesea  Mere  a  swampy  morass 
lined  with  reeds  and  bulrushes,  would  often,  in  the  time 
we  speak  of,  rise  and  spread,  drowning  cattle  and  flood¬ 
ing  villages.  The  people  would  perhaps  be  roused  from 
their  beds  at  night,  and  by  the  light  of  lanthorns  hun¬ 
dreds  of  them  would  set  to  work  in  hot  haste  mending 
the  holes  in  the  banks  through  which  the  waters  threat¬ 
ened  to  break.  Andrew  Fuller  had  his  share  in  this 
forced  labor,  we  may  be  sure.  He  came  of  a  sturdy 
race,  and  he  was  born  into  a  land  of  heroic  memories. 
Here,  Hereward  the  Wake,  last  of  the  English,  fought 
the  Normans  inch  by  inch,  and  this  sea  country  was 
itself  the  last  to  yield  to  the  conquering  William.  And 
here,  long  afterward,  Oliver  Cromwell  lived,  and  in  the 
church  at  Wicken  his  second  son  Henry  was  buried, 
and  was  let  lie  there  until  the  sexton  sold  his  skull  to 
some  curiosity  hunter  for  five  shillings.  A  flat  country 
enough  it  is,  but  equal  to  turning  out  great  men,  as  a  flat 
country  will.  There  were  no  hills  where  Milton  sang  of 
Paradise  Lost  and  Regained,  or  where  Shakespeare  saw 
in  fancy,  claud-Capped  towers  and  gorgeous  palaces,  or 
where  Bunyan  dreamed  of  the  Delectable  mountains,  or 
where  Cromwell  towered  up,  the  loftiest  Englishman  of 


ANDREW  FULLER. 


23 


his  times.  When  some  one  ventured  to  tell  Andrew 
Fuller  that  an  air  which  he  had  composed  was  in  a  flat 
key,  he  answered  truly  enough,  “  Very  likely.  I  think 
that  I  was  born  in  a  flat  key.”  And  there  can  be  no 
doubt  that  he  was. 

‘  ‘  Yet,  ’  ’  says  Kingsley,  in  his  tale  of  ‘  ‘  Hereward,  ’  ’  ‘ ‘ they 
have  a  beauty  of  their  own,  those  great  fens,  even  now 
when  they  are  dyked  and  drained,  tilled  and  fenced — a 
beauty  as  of  the  sea,  of  boundless  expanse  and  freedom.” 
Listen  again  :  “  Dark  and  sad  were  those  short  autumn 
days  when  all  the  distances  were  shut  off,  and  the  air 
choked  with  foul,  brown  fog  and  drenching  rains  from  off 
the  eastern  sea ;  and  pleasant  the  keen  northeast  wind, 
with  all  its  whirling  snowstorms.  For  though  it  sent  men 
hurrying  out  into  the  storm  to  drive  the  cattle  in  from  the 
fen,  and  lift  the  sheep  out  of  the  snowdrifts,  and  now  and 
then  never  to  return,  lost  in  mist  and  mire,  in  ice  and 
snow,  yet  all  knew  that  after  the  snow  would  come  the 
keen  frost  and  bright  sun  and  cloudless  blue  sky,  and  the 
fenmans  yearly  holiday,  when,  work  being  impossible,  all 
gave  themselves  up  to  play,  and  swarmed  upon  the  ice  on 
skates  and  sledges,  to  run  races,  township  against  township, 
visit  old  friends  full  forty  miles  away,  and  meet  every¬ 
where  faces  as  bright  and  ruddy  as  their  own,  cheered  by 
the  keen  wine  of  that  dry  and  bracing  frost.” 

Well,  this  was  the  country  in  which  Andrew  Fuller 
was  born.  If  you  look  at  his  picture  you  may  see  that 


24 


THE  MAKING  OF  WILLIAM  CAREY. 


he  came  fairly  enough  by  his  homely,  honest  face.  He 
was  no  beauty,  so  far  as  his  looks  went,  any  more  than 
were  the  fens.  But  he  had  what  was  better  than  beauty. 
He  had  goodness.  His  mother  lived  to  see  him  buried. 
She  was  a  very  old  woman,  of  ninety-two  years,  and  on 
the  day  of  Andrew’s  funeral  her  two  surviving  sons  stood 
beside  her  bed,  and  one  of  them  said,  “Well,  mother, 
we  have  had  a  great  loss  in  Andrew’s  death.” 

“Ah,  my  dear,  I  feel  it  very  much  indeed;  and  to 
think  he  should  be  called  before  me!  ” 

“  He  was  a  great  man,  mother.” 

“  What  did  you  say  ?  ” 

“  He  was  a  great  man.” 

“I  don’t  know  what  you  mean.” 

“Why,  he  wrote  many  books  thought  very  much  of.” 
“  Well,  well,  I  don’t  know  much  about  that ;  he  never 
said  anything  to  me  about  what  people  thought  of  them. 
I  know  that  he  was  a  good  man,  and  a  good  son  to  me.” 

Who  can  tell  how  much  he  owed  to  this  mother?  He 
was  scarcely  four  years  old  when  one  day  he  found  her 
pacing  her  bedroom,  speaking  with  great  earnestness, 
with  her  hands  fast  clasped,  and  her  eyes  as  though  they 
saw  things  that  were  far  off. 

“  Mother,  who  are  you  talking  to?  ” 

“  To  God,  my  child,  about  you.”  And  then  she  took 
the  little  hand  in  hers,  and  kneeling  with  him,  showed 
him  how  to  pray. 


ANDREW  FULLER. 


25 


He  was  a  farmer’s  boy,  and  he  loved  the  farm  life. 
There  was  a  certain  laborer  at  work  there  who  was  a  re¬ 
ligious  man.  Andrew,  when  he  began  to  think  about 
religion  himself,  walked  several  miles  to  talk  to  him,  and 
then  had  nothing  to  say.  But  he  grew  more  confident 
by-and-by.  He  would  hinder  the  man’s  threshing  in 
the  barn  by  his  questions,  and  would  make  up  for  the  lost 
time  by  doing  a  couple  of  hours’  work  for  him. 

“  Ain’t  I  in  your  way?  ”  he  asked  his  friend,  on  one 
occasion,  when  the  long  flail  almost  hit  him. 

“  Not  at  all,”  was  the  reply. 

A  minute  or  two  more  and  the  flail  swept  his  coat. 

“  I  told  you  I  was  in  your  way.” 

“No,”  was  the  answer,  dry  enough  to  come  from  a 
practiced  theologian.  “You’re  not  in  my  way,  but  I 
shall  be  in  yours  if  you  don’t  take  care.” 

So  much  had  Fuller  to  do  with  Carey  that  we  ought  to 
set  the  man  well  before  us.  He  was  very  strong  in  body. 
There  are  stories  about  his  prowess  in  boxing,  and  it  is 
certain  that  he  was  fond  of  wrestling.  Once,  when  he 
had  risen  to  be  a  very  grave  and  reverend  missionary 
deputy  he  fell  to  discussing  with  a  farmer,  whose  guest  he 
was,  the  wrestling  bouts  of  earlier  days.  The  farmer 
challenged  Fuller  to  a  conflict.  Early  next  morning, 
stripped  for  the  contest,  they  stood  face  to  face  in  the 
orchard.  Then  Fuller  saw  some  people  walking  along  a 
footpath,  on  their  way  to  early  prayer  meeting. 


26 


THE  MAKING  OF  WILLIAM  CAREY. 


“Brother,”  he  said,  slipping  on  his  coat,  “  this  will 
not  do ;  these  people  will  think  we  are  fighting,  and  we 
must  avoid  the  very  appearance  of  evil.  ’  ’  He  walked  back 
to  the  house,  but  the  farmer  could  not  help  flinging  after 
him  the  friendly  jeer  that  this  was  all  an  excuse.  “You 
were  afraid,”  said  he,  “I  should  throw  you.” 

Fuller  was  a  man  of  peace,  and  yet  he  has  been  known 
to  say  that  he  never  saw  a  strong,  muscular  man  come 
into  a  chapel  where  he  was  preaching  without  mentally 
calculating  what  would  be  the  best  way  to  conquer  him 
in  a  pitched  battle. 

Like  other  strong  and  healthy  men,  he  had  a  genial 
and  winning  way  about  him.  As  he  waited  for  a  coach 
one  day,  he  leaned  upon  a  gate,  watching  some  mowers. 

“Easy  enough,”  one  of  them  called  to  him,  “for  a 
gentleman  to  do  the  looking-on  part.  Wouldn’t  he  like 
to  try  his  hand  at  it?  ” 

“Well,”  said  Fuller,  “I  think  I  have  seen  as  hard 
work  as  you  seem  to  make  of  it ;  I  don’t  mind  trying 
what  it  is  like.” 

With  that  he  took  the  scythe,  and  mowed  away  with 
such  rapidity  and  so  clean  a  swath  that  the  men  stood 
looking  on  with  open  mouths. 

“  Oh,  sir,”  one  of  them  said,  “  you  have  had  a  scythe 
in  your  hand  before  to-day.” 

“Yes,  my  friend,  before  you  were  born.” 

Born  in  the  land  of  Cromwell,  Fuller  possessed  not  a 


27 


ANDREW  FULLER. 

little  of  Cromwell’s  independence.  He  was  in  the  height  of 
his  influence,  preaching  for  missions  and  collecting  great 
sums  of  money  for  them,  when  he  visited  Glasgow.  The 
Baptists  there  sent  him  word  that  it  his  views  agreed  with 
theirs,  he  might  preach  in  their  Chapel.  Fuller  answered 
that  he  was  not  a  candidate  for  their  pulpit,  and  that  he 
did  not  care  whether  he  preached  for  them  or  not.  The 
perplexed  brethren  had  another  meeting,  and  decided 
that  unless  he  would  make  a  confession  of  his  faith  they 
could  not  listen  to  him.  “Very  well,  then,”  said 
Fuller,  “  I  shall  go  to  the  Tabernacle  ” — the  great  meet¬ 
ing  house  built  for  evangelistic  work.  “  I  consider  your 
conduct  as  a  renunciation  of  connection  with  us  as 
English  churches,  for  it  implies  that  you  have  no  confi¬ 
dence  in  us.”  Too  late  the  slaves  of  the  letter  found 
that  they  had  to  do  with  a  man  who  was  in  the  liberty  of 
the  spirit  of  the  gospel.  Fuller  preached  in  the  Tabernacle 
to  four  thousand  people  in  the  afternoon,  and  to  nearly 
five  thousand  in  the  evening,  and  collected  two  hundred 
pounds.  Calling  on  an  Episcopal  clergyman  once  to 
ask  for  a  subscription,  he  was  met  somewhat  scornfully. 
The  clergyman  did  not  know  Fuller  personally,  and  had 
very  little  opinion  either  of  Baptists  or  of  their  mission. 
“However,”  he  said,  “there  is  one  great  man  among 
you,  and  his  treatise  entitled,  ‘  The  Gospel  Worthy  of 
All  Acceptation,’  is  one  of  the  most  masterly  productions 
I  know.” 


28 


THE  MAKING  OF  WILLIAM  CAREY. 


“  For  all  the  faults  in  that  work,  sir,”  said  Mr.  Fuller, 
“  I  am  responsible.” 

The  clergyman  at  once  rose  from  his  chair,  expressed 
the  greatest  regret  at  his  rudeness,  and  pressed  a  sub' 
scription  upon  the  collector. 

“No,  sir,”  said  Fuller,  “not  a  farthing.  You  do  not 
give  in  faith.” 

Only  after  much  persuasion  could  he  be  induced  to 
receive  the  money. 

A  somewhat  similar  story  tells  us  how  he  went  to  his 
native  town,  on  the  same  mission,  and  one  of  his  ac¬ 
quaintances  said,  “Well,  Andrew,  I’ll  give  five  pounds, 
seeing  it  is  you.” 

“  No,”  was  the  answer  again  ;  ”  I  can  take  nothing  for 
the  cause,  seeing  it  is  me ,”  and  the  money  was  handed 
back. 

“  Andrew,”  his  friend  said,  after  a  moment’s  reflection, 
“  you  are  right.  Here  are  ten  pounds,  seeing  it  is  for  the 
Lord  Jesus  Christ.” 

It  was  this  man  who  met  Carey  at  an  Association 
to  which  the  poor  shoemaker  had  come  fasting  and  pen¬ 
niless.  They  were  kindred  spirits,  and  they  became  close 
friends.  Fuller  found  his  way  into  the  cottage  at  Moulton, 
and  saw  the  maps  and  the  leathern  globe ;  and  also  the 
school,  about  which  Carey  was  wont  to  say,  with  a  twin¬ 
kle  in  his  eye,  “  When  I  kept  school,  my  scholars  kept 


ANDREW  FULLER. 


29 


The  two  men  had  very  much  in  common.  The  first 
time  that  Fuller  heard  Carey  preach  he  seized  his  hand 
as  he  left  the  pulpit,  and  told  him  of  his  pleasure  that 
their  sentiments  so  closely  corresponded.  When,  long 
years  after,  news  reached  Carey  in  India  that  his  friend 
was  dead,  he  declared  that  his  wish  to  see  England  again 
died  too. 

In  their  long  talks  together  there  were  two  subjects 
which  oftenest  engaged  their  thoughts.  Was  it  the  duty 
of  all  men  to  whom  it  was  made  known  to  believe  the 
gospel  ?  Was  it  the  duty  of  the  Christian  church  to 
publish  this  gospel  ?  Carey  began  at  one  end  of  the 
difficulty,  but  Fuller  had  to  begin  at  the  other.  Unless 
men  were  bound  to  believe,  the  church  was  hardly  bound 
to  preach.  Now  the  Baptists,  as  a  rule,  held  at  that 
time  that  it  was  not  the  duty  of  all  men  to  whom  the 
gospel  is  preached  to  repent  and  believe  in  Christ.  The 
best  known  Baptist  minister  of  the  time  was  John  Gill. 
For  over  half  a  century  he  ministered  to  the  church 
which  has  since  became  so  famous  through  the  pastorate  of 
Mr.  Spurgeon.  He  was  a  man  of  strong  character,  will, 
and  intellect.  Mr.  Spurgeon  himself  says  of  Gill 
that  he  was  never  a  great  soul-winner,  and  that  “  his 
method  of  address  to  sinners,  in  which  for  many  years  a 
large  class  of  preachers  followed  him,  was  not  likely  to 
be  largely  useful.’ ’  Himself  a  native  of  Kettering, 
where  Andrew  Fuller  became  pastor,  and  from  which 


30 


THE  MAKING  OF  WILLIAM  CAEEY. 


our  missionary  enterprise  was  launched,  it  is  not  to 
be  supposed  that  he  made  the  work  any  easier  for  the 
two  great  men  whose  hearts  were  full  of  pity  for  the 
heathen  and  of  longing  to  save  them. 

We  can  readily  see  how  if  the  duty  of  the  obligation  to 
urge  sinners  to  repent,  and  to  insist  upon  their  guilt  if 
they  refuse,  be  not  binding  upon  a  preacher  or  upon  a 
church,  apathy  and  ease  must  come.  The  ministers  who 
held  such  deadening  views  had  no  need  to  disturb  or 
bestir  themselves.  So  we  read  of  the  genial  club  in 
which  the  London  ministers  met  every  week,  and  of  the 
open  tables  which  were  kept  for  them  by  hospitable 
parishioners.  From  these  men  Fuller  and  Carey  might 
look  in  vain  for  enthusiasm.  “  Above  all,  no  zeal,”  the 
direction  which  a  bishop  of  those  days  gave  to  his  clergy 
was  a  direction  very  much  to  their  minds. 

Into  this  stagnant  air  Andrew  Fuller  fired  his  mem¬ 
orable  shot,  “The  Gospel  Worthy  of  All  Acceptation.’ * 
He  contended  that  it  was  the  duty  of  all  to  whom  the 
gospel  was  preached  to  accept  it  heartily.  At  once  the 
quiet  was  changed  to  strife.  For  nearly  eight  years  the 
battle  went  on.  The  sun  was  darkened  by  the  discharges 
of  pamphlets,  and  tractates,  and  volumes  of  all  sorts  and 
sizes.  But  at  the  end  of  that  time  the  victory  was  won, 
Fuller  had  brought  almost  all  intelligent  men  who  gave 
the  matter  devout  thought  around  to  his  view.  Mean¬ 
while  Carey  had  been  talking,  preaching,  praying  Mis- 


ANDREW  FULLER. 


31 


sions  to  the  Heathen.  In  1792,  he  preached  at  North¬ 
ampton  his  sermon — his  epoch-making  sermon — which 
was  summed  up  in  two  mighty  sentences  :  “  Expect  great 
thi?igs  from  God.  Attempt  great  things  for  God.  ’  ’ 

Into  that  sermon  he  put  himself.  “The  sluices 
of  his  soul  were  thrown  full  open,  and  the  flood  that 
had  been  accumulating  for  years  rushed  forth  in  full 
volume  and  irresistible  power.7’  Dr.  Ryland,  one  of 
the  strongest  characters  of  his  time,  listened  to  it,  and 
declared  that  “  If  all  the  people  had  lifted  up  their  voices 
and  wept,  it  would  only  have  seemed  proportionate  to 
the  cause  :  so  clearly  did  he  prove  the  criminality  of  our 
supineness  in  the  cause  of  God.” 

The  people  were  staggered  and  thunderstruck  under 
Carey’s  words.  The  very  force  of  their  feeling  was  in 
itself  a  danger.  It  looked  as  if  the  meeting  would 
break  up  without  action.  Carey  seized  Fuller’s  hand 
now,  as  in  an  earlier  day  Fuller  had  seized  Carey’s.  In 
an  agony  of  distress  he  demanded  whether  they  could 
separate  without  something  being  done.  The  appeal  was 
made  to  the  right  man,  in  the  right  place,  and  at  the 
right  time.  It  was  immediately  resolved  “  that  plans  be 
prepared  against  the  next  ministers’  meeting  at  Kettering 
for  the  establishment  of  a  society  for  propagating  the 
gospel  among  the  heathen. 

Those  two  clasped  hands,  one  thrilling  with  the  an¬ 
guish  of  Carey,  the  other  strong  with  the  nervous  grip  of 


32 


THE  MAKING  OF  WILLIAM  CAREY. 


Fuller,  joined  the  two  great  forces  from  which  our  mis¬ 
sionary  enterprise  sprang.  It  was  Fuller  who  prepared 
England  for  Carey,  and  when  Carey  went  down  into  the 
mine,  it  was  Fuller  who,  as  he  himself  said,  held  the 
ropes. 

The  respectable  people,  who  drove  their  own  horses, 
farmed  their  own  fields,  and  worshiped  the  great  god¬ 
dess  Decorum,  would  none  of  this  new-fangled  teaching. 
Fuller  bluntly  confessed  that  “when  the  work  began 
in  1792,  there  was  little  or  no  respectability  among 
us,  not  so  much  as  a  ’squire  to  sit  in  the  chair.”  In 
England  this  is  the  unpardonable  sin  at  public  meet¬ 
ings.  And  Fuller  adds  that  the  London  ministers  let 
them  severely  alone. 

But  what  did  it  matter  if  the  ’squire  would  not  counte¬ 
nance  them,  if  London  knew  them  not  ?  They  were 
doing  a  great  work  and  they  could  not  come  down. 
Glorious  rebels  against  the  tyranny  of  stagnation,  their 
hour  had  come  at  last  ! 

“  A  goodly  thing  is  prudence, 

And  they  are  valued  friends, 

Who  never  make  beginnings 
Until  they  see  the  ends  : 

But  give  us  now  and  then  a  man 
And  we  will  make  him  king, 

Just  to  scorn  the  consequences, 

Just  to  do  the  thing.” 


INDIA. 


33 


One  more  radius  remains  to  be 
VI.  India.  struck,  India.  Again  we  have  to  do 
with  an  English  boy,  but  with  one 
very  unlike  William  Carey  as  he  searches  the  hedgerows 
for  rare  flowers,  or  Andrew  Fuller  as  he  listens  to  the 
pious  thresher  in  his  father’s  barn.  This  boy,  who  was 
born  in  1725,  was  alike  the  terror  and  the  pride  of  his 
native  town.  He  was  the  leader  in  every  feat  of  daring. 
He  headed  a  band  of  boys  only  less  fearless  than  him¬ 
self,  and  led  the  shopkeepers  of  Market  Drayton  a  life 
scarcely  worth  living,  breaking  their  windows  and  carry¬ 
ing  off  their  goods,  unless  they  paid  the  freebooters’ 
tribute  of  apples  and  pence.  He  climbed  the  tall 
church  steeple  and  sat  on  a  stone  spout  near  the  top, 
enjoying  the  horror  of  the  people  beneath,  who  half- 
feared  that  he  would  fall  and  half-feared  that  he  would 
not.  No  school  could  or  would  keep  him.  He  was  as 
passionate  as  he  was  courageous.  Nothing  could  be 
done  with  him  at  home,  and  so  Bob  Clive,  as  they 
all  called  him,  was  packed  off  before  he  was  eighteen, 
to  make  a  fortune  or  to  die  of  a  fever  at  Madras.  He 
did  neither  for  a  time,  for  he  never  did  do  what  others 
expected  of  him.  At  first  he  chafed  under  the  dull  life 
of  a  clerk,  and  twice  he  tried  to  shoot  himself,  but 
failed.  Then  he  found  a  library,  and  buried  himself  in 
books.  Suddenly  the  jealousy  of  the  French,  who  were 
virtually  the  masters  of  that  part  of  India,  flung  the 


34 


THE  MAKING  OF  WILLIAM  CAREY. 


little  company  of  English  traders  into  prison.  Clive 
escaped,  disguised  as  a  Mussulman,  threw  aside  the  pen 
forever,  and  took  up  the  sword.  He  became  a  soldier, 
and  with  amazing  rapidity  rose  to  command  great  bodies 
of  troops.  Everywhere  victory  crowned  his  arms.  I 
need  not  follow  a  course  which  reads  even  now  like  a 
romance ;  but  it  is  enough  for  me  to  say  that  Clive  made 
the  English  soldiers  the  one  victorious  force  in  India. 

Another  turn  of  the  wheel  of  fortune  lifted  him  higher 
yet.  Surajah  Doulah,  sovereign  of  the  great  province 
of  Bengal,  a  boy  in  years,  but  old  in  every  kind  of 
wickedness,  seized  the  little  English  settlement  of  Fort 
William,  Calcutta,  ordered  the  managers  of  the  factory 
to  be  brought  before  him,  and  after  grumbling  at  the 
smallness  of  the  treasure  which  he  had  found  in  the 
place,  wound  up  by  promising  the  captured  people  their 
lives,  and  handing  them  over  to  his  guards.  “Then,” 
says  Macaulay,  in  a  passage  which  has  become  historical, 
“was  committed  that  great  crime  memorable  for  its 
singular  atrocity,  memorable  for  the  tremendous  retribu¬ 
tion  by  which  it  was  followed.  The  English  captives 
were  left  to  the  mercy  of  the  guards,  and  the  guards 
determined  to  secure  them  for  the  night  in  the  prison  of 
the  garrison,  a  chamber  known  by  the  fearful  name  of 
‘  the  Black  Hole.’  Even  for  a  single  European  male¬ 
factor  that  dungeon  would  in  such  a  climate  have  been 
too  close  and  narrow.  The  space  was  only  twenty  feet 


INDIA.  35 

square.  The  air-holes  were  small  and  obstructed.  It 
was  the  summer  solstice,  the  season  when  the  fierce  heat 
of  Bengal  can  scarcely  be  rendered  tolerable  to  natives 
of  England  by  lofty  halls  and  by  the  constant  waving 
of  fans.  The  number  of  prisoners  was  one  hundred  and 
forty-six.  When  they  were  ordered  to  enter  the  cell 
they  imagined  that  the  soldiers  were  joking ;  and  being 
in  high  spirits  on  account  of  the  promise  of  the  Nabob 
to  spare  their  lives,  they  laughed  and  jested  at  the 
absurdity  of  the  notion.  They  soon  discovered  their 
mistake.  They  expostulated ;  they  entreated  ;  but  in 
vain.  The  guards  threatened  to  cut  down  all  who 
hesitated.  The  captives  were  driven  into  the  cell  at  the 
point  of  the  sword,  and  the  door  was  instantly  shut  and 
locked  upon  them.  Nothing  in  history  or  fiction 
approaches  the  horrors  which  were  recounted  by  the  few 
survivors  of  that  night.  They  cried  for  mercy.  They 
strove  to  burst  the  door.  They  trampled  each  other 
down,  fought  for  places  at  the  windows,  fought  for  the 
pittance  of  water  with  which  the  cruel  mercy  of  their 
murderers  mocked  their  agonies;  raved,  prayed,  blas¬ 
phemed,  implored  the  guards  to  fire  among  them.  The 
jailers  in  the  meantime  held  lights  to  the  bars,  and 
shouted  with  laughter  at  the  frantic  struggles  of  their 
victims.  At  length  the  tumult  died  away  in  low  gasp- 
ings  and  moanings.  The  day  broke.  The  Nabob  had 
slept  off  his  debauch,  and  permitted  the  door  to  be 


36 


THE  MAKING  OF  WILLIAM  CAREY. 


opened.  But  it  was  some  time  before  the  soldiers  could 
make  a  lane  for  the  survivors  by  piling  up  on  each  side 
the  heap  of  corpses  on  which  the  burning  climate  had 
already  begun  to  do  its  loathsome  work.  When  at 
length  a  passage  was  made,  twenty-three  figures,  such  as 
their  own  mothers  would  not  have  known,  staggered  one 
by  one  out  of  the  charnel  house.  A  pit  was  instantly 
dug.  The  dead  bodies,  one  hundred  and  twenty-three 
in  number,  were  flung  into  it  promiscuously  and  covered 
up.”  This  atrocity  called  Clive  into  the  field  afresh,  and 
the  negotiations  which  followed  the  routing  of  the  murder¬ 
ers  at  Fort  William  and  the  recapture  of  Calcutta  made 
him  a  statesman.  The  British  dominion  in  India  may 
almost  be  dated  from  that  awful  night  in  the  Black  Hole. 

At  Fort  William  a  college  was  subsequently  opened 
for  the  training  of  servants  of  the  East  India  Com¬ 
pany.  When  Carey  came  to  India  it  was  not  to  a 
number  of  torn  and  distracted  provinces,  but  it  was 
rather  to  a  vast  nation,  which  was  rapidly  feeling  the 
vigorous  touch  of  England.  All  things  are  possible  to  the 
gospel  when  once  it  gets  a  foothold.  Not  long,  as  we 
know,  was  that  foothold  denied  the  Baptist  missionaries. 
Nine  years  after  landing  in  India,  William  Carey  was  ap¬ 
pointed  Professor  of  Bengali,  in  that  very  college  of 
Fort  William,  which  but  for  the  barbarity  of  Surajah 
Doulah  and  the  magnificent  generalship  of  Robert 
Clive,  'would  probably  never  have  come  into  existence. 


INDIA. 


37 


Thus  Clive  unconsciously  made  India  ready  for  a 
greater  than  he,  the  poor  shoemaker  of  Paulerspury. 

Our  task  is  now  done.  We  set  out  to  trace  some  of 
the  lines  which  led  up  to  William  Carey.  Commencing 
far  enough  from  one  another  they  all  meet  in  him. 
Upon  the  moment  when  he  set  foot  in  India  and 

began  his  work,  these  various  lines  converge.  The 

boy  stumbling  upon  a  Greek  Testament  in  a  cob¬ 
bler’s  stall,  and  upon  a  Dutch  quarto  in  an  old 

woman’s  cottage,  was  already  preparing  himself  for  the 
professorship  at  Fort  William.  The  simple-hearted 
young  prince  ascending  an  English  throne,  and  resolving 
to  cleanse  the  moral  condition  of  his  country,  was, 
although  insensibly  to  himself,  making  that  country 
ready  for  its  mission  to  the  nations  of  the  world. 

Wesley,  speeding  from  village  to  village,  was  kindling  a 
new  fervor  of  faith,  and  Whitefield  crying,  “  Oh,  earth, 
earth,  earth,  hear  the  word  of  the  Lord,”  was  preparing 
a  way  for  the  foot  of  the  missionary.  The  hardy  seaman 

I  * 

who  girdled  the  world,  and  came  back  to  tell  his  wonder¬ 
ful  story  to  his  countrymen,  did  nothing  else  so  important 
as  to  fire  Carey  with  a  passion  for  carrying  the  gospel  to 
Tahiti.  The  greatest  intellect  of  the  age,  speculating 
amid  the  elms  of  New  England,  touched  its  highest  point 
when  it  appealed  to  Christians  the  world  over  to  pray 
for  the  triumph  of  the  Redeemer,  and  that  appeal  fell 


38 


THE  MAKING  OF  WILLIAM  CAREY. 


into  no  soil  more  fertile  than  the  gathering  of  obscure 
Baptist  ministers  from  which  Carey’s  mighty  project 
sprang.  The  last  of  the  English,  driven  into  the  fens, 
sent  their  fearless  blood  coursing  through  the  veins  of 
Andrew  Fuller.  And  the  wild  schoolboy,  Robert  Clive, 
drafted  off  to  India,  chiefly  in  order  that  his  relations 
might  be  rid  of  him,  opened  that  great  continent  to  the 
simple  shoemaker  who  came  to  its  shores  with  the  mes¬ 
sage  of  a  Saviour’s  love.  These  varied  and  contrasted 
influences  all  met  in  William  Carey,  as  he  entered  on 
the  work  which  has  made  his  name  immortal. 

I  cannot  close  without  referring  to  another  harbinger 
of  the  dawn  which  had  for  half  a  century  before  this 
time  been  filling  the  air  with  its  music.  The  hymns  of 
the  Christian  Church  had  been  sung  in  dark  hours,  but 
they  had  already  struck  the  high  note  of  confident  faith. 
Nahum  Tate,  although  he  was  poet-laureate,  did  little 
more  than  set  the  dullness  of  his  age  to  kindred  rhyme ; 
but  amid  his  intemperance  and  inanity  he  sang  : 

“  To  bless  thy  chosen  race, 

In  mercy,  Lord,  incline  ; 

And  cause  the  brightness  of  thy  face 
On  all  thy  saints  to  shine ; 

“  That  so  thy  wondrous  way 

May  through  the  world  be  known  ; 

Whilst  distant  lands  their  tribute  pay, 

And  thy  salvation  own.” 

Williams,  the  laureate  of  Wales,  did  not  witness  the 


INDIA. 


39 


launching  of  British  missions  to  the  heathen.  He  died 
the  year  before  Carey  sailed  to  India.  And  yet  all  the 
fruitful  and  inspiring  events  of  this  last  hundred  years 
have  given  us  no  nobler  hymn  than  that  in  which  we 
still  join  so  heartily  : 

“  Fly  abroad  thou  mighty  gospel, 

Win  and  conquer,  never  cease, 

May  thy  lasting  wide  dominion 
Multiply  and  still  increase  ; 

Sway  thy  sceptre, 

Saviour,  all  the  world  around.” 

The  poets  were  right.  Mounting  into  a  loftier  and 
purer  air  than  was  breathed  by  others,  they  saw  the  day 
of  the  Lord  which  was  at  hand  ;  they  saw  it  and  were  glad. 

The  study  which  we  now  bring  to  a  close  has  furnished 
us  with  a  powerful  argument  for  the  sovereignty  of  God. 
These  various  lines  were  all  of  his  appointing.  He 
trained  Carey  in  the  cobbler’s  stall.  He  prepared 
Wesley  to  prepare  England.  He  taught  Fuller  to  break 
down  the  barriers  of  doctrinal  prejudice.  He  guided 
James  Cook  in  his  course,  and  he  controlled  the  passion¬ 
ate  nature  of  Robert  Clive.  Not  accident,  but  divine 
foresight,  struck  that  circle  of  which  Carey  was  the 
centre ;  and  drew  each  separate  radius  which  converged 
upon  him. 

To  the  last  Carey  was  never  ashamed  of  his  humble 
origin.  Whatsoever  his  hand  found  to  do  he  did  with 


40 


THE  MAKING  OF  WILLIAM  CAREY. 

v 

all  his  might,  whether  it  was  cobbling  a  peasant’s  shoes, 
or  composing  a  Mahratta  dictionary.  He  seems  to  have 
pursued  his  great  enterprise  under  the  mastering  convic¬ 
tion  that  he  was,  as  one  said  of  Judson,  “Jesus  Christ’s 
man.”  He  lived  to  see  his  brightest  hopes  realized,  his 
mightiest  faith  justified,  and  the  vision  at  which  all 
England  had  smiled  contemptuously  transformed  into 
reality.  Long  before  he  died  the  scoffers  had  ceased  to 
jeer,  and  the  sneerers  were  themselves  objects  of  con¬ 
tempt.  The  “consecrated  cobbler,”  who  had  once 
gone  hungry  and  penniless  to  the  Association,  was  feasted 
in  palaces ;  and  nobles  and  dignitaries  of  the  church 
tended  him  in  his  dying  hours.  Yet  he  never  swerved 
in  his  simple  devotion  to  his  Saviour.  When  young 
Alexander  Duff,  himself  destined  to  be  one  of  the  leaders 
in  Indian  missions,  visited  Carey  in  his  last  moments,  it 
was  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  something  should  be  said 
about  the  work  which  the  dying  missionary  had  accom¬ 
plished.  But  as  he  left  the  room,  Duff  thought  that  he 
heard  a  feeble  voice  calling  him  back.  It  was  Carey. 
“Mr.  Duff,”  he  said,  painfully  and  with  difficulty, 
‘  ‘  you  have  been  speaking  about  Dr .  Carey.  Dr.  Carey. 
When  I  am  gone  say  nothing  about  Dr.  Carey — speak 
about  Dr.  Carey’s  Saviour.” 

The  name  of  William  Carey  dies  away  from  that  cen¬ 
tre  ;  and  in  its  place  we  write  the  name  of  Jesus  Christ. 


